Prologue: Part Two - Severus
Muck. He felt muck. All around him. Oozing, and slithering. And the sharp shooting pain would not stop. It persisted even though the potion should already be taking effect. His distrust had been well founded. His current state was testament to this very point.
What could quite efficiently be described as a glass half empty, if not completely so, sort of an outlook could just save his arse. If not, then it would serve to simply prolong his pain and eventual death. He hoped to Merlin that things would not go that way. For the first time in a long time he hoped for survival.
This surprised Severus. For a little short of two decades this man had been a spy to two masters. Fulfilling each of their demands, in the mean time striving for survival so that the Boy Who Lived to a Pain in his Arse would live. His own destiny in this way tied to Harry Bloody Potter for almost two heart-attack worthy decades.
All of this had led to where he was now. Lying on the rickety floor of the Shrieking Shack. A gapping wound at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Oozing thunderously. His robes soaking through completely. He felt as if he was covered in dirt and muck. In that moment, death was not the worry. If he had been able to laugh he would because of all things that could be at the forefront of his consciousness, concern for his robes outdid all else. Tailor made, close fitted, and menacing in every respect and with its billowy tail. This was all he had to his name that seemed to matter in this moment just shy of death.
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Blood. Blood everywhere. The wound still seeped languidly. The profuse spurting from earlier still covered his robes, sliding down his shoulders to cover his arm quite thoroughly. His palms sticky from it all.
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His body slumped up against the birchwood tree. The smell floating around and enveloping him, it filled his nostrils. Birchwood. He didn't think that there was any Birchwood in the Forbidden Forest. His mind clouded, he gripped at the tree. The smell intensifying as his nails dug into the bark. Now a sudden warmth spread down some of his finger tips. Blood. He was a bloody dunderhead. Pun intended.
He was truly dying. Somewhere, run off his feet. He did not think he was still bleeding. At least not from his neck. But the iron-tinged aroma of his own blood still surrounded him. It was was all making his head heavy. Heavy and fuzzy. If he would have known that this is what it was going to be like, he would not have even tried. He had been foolish in the face of death, thinking he needed to get up and find the boy. To make sure he did not let Lily Potter's son die.
He was no help to any one. Wandering around, Merlin knew where. Even in this moment, Severus Snape recognised the irony. He was to die at his own hand. Proving once and for all that he was of no use to anyone. In that thought he knew he was falling. His legs no longer able to support him, Severus Snape fell to the ground, covered in his own blood and mucus, and the last coherent thought he had was of bluebells.
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He remembered bluebells. But now the scent of them had vanished. He thought he could just make out the smell of lavender. And lemons. His eyelids fought to open. Fluttering like the wings of a distraught moth racing towards the light. Candle light. He saw the dance of candle light against the surfaces at the corner of his scope of sight.
Severus Snape figured that the centaurs must have claimed his limp, near dead body. What they had planned he did not know. But he suspected that it would not be easy. The men of the Forest had long been fond of the dotty fool. Punishment for Albus Dumbledore's murderer would be just, but he suspected it would not be swift.
'Father, I think the Professor is coming to.'
In the distance he heard her. A sing song quality to her voice that sounded eerily familiar. That was the only thing he heard before he fell unconscious, again.
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The first day that Severus had managed a few minutes of lucid consciousness he had been shocked to find himself dressed in a blue tunic sort shirt. The pants just as ludicrous. They were grey with pink hems. In that moment he knew he was in hell.
Later, he insisted it was the shock of the hideous attire that sent him back into his mini coma. One which he had not, apparently, come out from for two days. He had realised he was wrong. This did not happen often for Severus Snape.
The centaurs had not found him. For three consecutive days, while he was bedridden and quite unable to leave, let alone conjure up a glass of water, he wished for Merlin or Neptune, or whom ever else for witness to his suffering, to grant him a mere request and that the centaurs would find him. It would have been better than this fate, he had insisted.
After those several early days, things had improved. He was able to, with great effort, prepare himself for meals and the compulsory walk around the garden his captives enforced. As soon as he had been able to he refused the purple tunic. Quite violently. He had thrown it off, with help from Periwinkle the house elf, and tossed it into the hearth. Severus had no shame in admitting how he had found merriment in the expression on their faces.
Even now, he was finding it hard to speak and hold lengthy conversations. His throat was taking longer to heal than he had suspected. His left arm had also continued to pain him even after the physical wounds had healed. But at the time of the shirt sacrifice he had been worse. He had been told that he had been positively livid and growled at the shirt and then at his hosts.
He was told that late on the night of the battle, Luna Lovegood and her father Xenophilius had come across the body of Severus Snape. He had wandered close to the wards the Lovegoods had placed around the sanctuaries near their home. Xenophilius had himself designed the wards, Luna had stated proudly, for surveying the magical creatures in the area in hopes of catching sight of a Demiguise.
Severus Snape was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Lovegoods had been kind to him. Saved him from what could have been a much worse fate. Yet, they had no reason for their kindness. Least of all for him: a traitor and a murderer.
Maybe the punishment was this. Father and daughter treated him just as they would a friend. Once he was able to stand, he had been committed, against his will, to daily walks around the garden. Luna or Xenophilius would accompany him. Where Luna would relegate the tales of the post-war world, Xenophilius would talk of the creatures in the forest. On days that Severus felt well enough, which was becoming more frequent, the two men would wander into the forest. Severus keeping Xenophilius company as he followed trails and checked on specific regions.
The Lovegoods had been welcoming, when they clearly did not need to be. Severus was even growing to tolerate the dry oatmeal Luna prepared on Sunday mornings when she was home from Hogwarts. Xenophilius told him that she was spending time in Scotland, helping with the rebuild at the castle.
It was Sunday morning again. The fifth Sunday Severus Snape had spent with the Lovegoods. Today there was no oatmeal. Actually, today he was the first to breakfast it seemed.
'Sir, need something?'
'Where are the eggs, Periwinkle?'
'Periwinkle, will get eggs.'
'And, cheese and bacon please.'
'Yes, sir. Right away sir.'
With a pop the little house elf was gone.
Tea. Tea sounded like a great idea.
Just as the kettle was coming to boil, the distinct pop alerted Severus of Periwinkle's return. He turned to find the eggs, cheese and bacon on the counter with fruits and bread.
'Thank you, Periwinkle.'
'Sir call if he need more.'
And she was off again.
A little while later as Severus was managing, with a little difficulty, to not burn the bacon and the toast, he heard the footsteps of father and daughter wandering into the kitchen.
'Lovegoods.' His greetings had not gotten any warmer following his brush with death.
'Good morning, Professor.'
'Bacon on a Sunday. You will spoil us rotten Severus.'
'It smells divine, doesn't it daddy.'
'A little burnt, but yes.'
That had the effect Xenophilius had hoped for. Severus growled lightly. The fault had been his alone. He had overestimated the muscle strength in his recovering arm.
'This is the least I can do.' Humility evident in his tone.
As Severus finished up with the last of the bacon, Luna set the table and Xenophilius retrieved the morning owls.
'Good man, you fed ol' Bartholomew.'
'And I have the bleeding scrapes to prove it.'
His disgruntled response, earned him a chuckle from the lady in the room. A chuckle that was anything but ladylike.
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